Ian Rankin: The Impossible Dead

The cottage sat near the top of the rise, just as the track came to an end at a gate leading to fields. A few sheep were scattered around. Noiseless crows glided between the trees. The wind was biting, though the sun had broken from behind a bank of cloud.

Smoke continued to drift up from the cottage’s chimney. There was an olive-green Land Rover parked off to one side, next to a large, neat pile of split logs. The door of the cottage rattled open. The man who filled the doorway was almost a parody of the big, jolly policeman. Alan Carter’s face was ruddy, cheeks and nose criss-crossed with thin red veins. His eyes sparkled and his pale yellow cardigan was stretched to the limit of its buttons. The check shirt beneath was open at the collar, allowing copious grey chest hair to breathe. Though almost completely bald, he retained bushy sideburns, which almost met at one of his chins.

‘I knew I’d be getting a visit,’ Carter bellowed, one pudgy hand resting on the door frame. ‘Should’ve made an appointment, though. I seem to be busier these days than ever.’ Fox was standing in front of him now, and the two men shook hands.

‘You’re not in the Craft, then?’ Carter asked.

‘No.’

‘Time was, most coppers you met were Masons. In you come then, lad

…’

The hallway was short and narrow, most of the space taken up with bookshelves, coat rack and a selection of wellington boots. The living room was small and sweltering, courtesy of a fire piled high with logs.

‘Need to keep it warm for Jimmy Nicholl,’ Carter said.

‘Who?’

‘The dog.’

An ancient-looking Border collie with rheumy eyes blinked in Fox’s direction from its basket near the fireplace.

‘Who’s he named for?’

‘The Raith manager. Not now, of course, but Jimmy took us into Europe.’ Carter broke off and gave Fox a look. ‘Not a football fan either?’

‘Used to be. My name’s Fox, by the way. Inspector Fox.’

‘Rubber-Sole Brigade – that what they still call you?’

‘That or the Complaints.’

‘And doubtless worse things too, behind your back.’

‘Or to our faces.’

‘Will it be a mug of tea or something stronger?’ Carter nodded towards a bottle of whisky on a shelf.

‘Tea’ll do the job.’

‘Bit early in the day for the “cratur”, maybe,’ Carter agreed. ‘I won’t be a minute.’

He headed for the kitchen. Fox could hear him pouring water into a kettle. His voice boomed down the hallway. ‘When I read Cardonald’s summing-up, I knew there’d have to be an inquiry. You’re not local, though. A local might’ve known the name Jimmy Nicholl. On top of which, your car’s from Edinburgh…’

Carter was back in the room now, looking pleased with himself.

‘The registration?’ Fox guessed.

‘The dealer’s sticker in the back window,’ Carter corrected him. ‘Take a seat, laddie.’ He gestured to one of the two armchairs. ‘Milk and sugar?’

‘Just milk. Are you still in security, Mr Carter?’

‘Is this you showing me you’ve done your research?’ Carter smiled. ‘The company’s still mine.’

‘What exactly does the company do?’

‘Doormen for bars and clubs… security guards… protection for visiting dignitaries.’

‘Do a lot of dignitaries pass through Kirkcaldy?’

‘They did when Gordon Brown was PM. And they still like to play golf at St Andrews.’

Carter left the room to fetch their drinks, and Fox crossed to the window. There was a dining table there, piled high with paperwork and magazines. The paperwork had been stuffed into folders. A map of Fife lay open, locations circled in black ink. The magazines seemed to date back to the 1980s, and when Fox lifted one of them he saw that there was a newspaper beneath it. The date on the newspaper was Monday, 29 April 1985.

‘You’ll have me pegged as a hoarder,’ Carter said, carrying a tray into the room. He placed it on a corner of the table and poured out tea for the both of them. Half a dozen shortbread fingers had been emptied on to a patterned plate.

‘And a bachelor?’ Fox guessed.

‘Your research has let you down. My wife ran off with somebody two decades back, and the same number of years younger than me at the time.’

‘Making her a cradle-snatcher.’

Carter wagged a finger. ‘I’m sixty-two. Jessica was forty and the wee shite-bag twenty-one.’

‘Nobody else since?’

‘Christ, man, is this a Complaints interview or a dating service? She’s dead anyway, God rest her. Had a kid with the shite-bag.’

‘But none with yourself?’ Carter gave a twitch of the mouth. ‘Does that rankle?’

‘Why should it? Maybe my son or daughter would have turned out as bad as my nephew.’

Carter gestured towards the chairs and the two men sat down with their drinks. There was a slight stinging sensation in Fox’s eyes, which he tried blinking away.

‘It’s the woodsmoke,’ Carter explained. ‘You can’t see it, but it’s there.’ He reached down and fed Jimmy Nicholl half a shortbread finger. ‘His teeth are just about up to it. Come to think of it, mine aren’t much better.’

‘You’ve been retired fifteen years?’

‘I’ve been out of the force that long.’

‘Your brother was a cop same time as you?’

‘A year shy of retirement when his heart gave out.’

‘Was that around the time your nephew joined the police?’

Alan Carter nodded. ‘Maybe it was why he joined up. He never seemed to have a gift for it. What’s the word I’m looking for?’

‘Vocation?’

‘Aye. That’s what Paul never had.’

‘You weren’t keen on him following the family tradition?’

Alan Carter was silent for a moment, then he leaned forward as best he could, resting the mug on one knee.

‘Paul was never a good son. He ran his mother ragged until the cancer took her. After that, it was his dad’s turn. At the funeral, all he seemed interested in was how much the house was worth, and how much effort it was going to take to get the place emptied.’

‘The two of you weren’t exactly friendly, then. Yet he came to see you…’

‘I think he’d been partying all night. It was just past noon. How he got the car up here without smashing it…’ Carter stared into the fire. ‘He wanted to do a bit of bragging. But he was maudlin, too – you know the way drink can sometimes take us.’

‘One of the reasons I don’t do it.’ Fox took a swig of tea. It was dark and strong, coating his tongue and the back of his throat.

‘He came here to show off. Said he was a better cop than any of us. He “owned” Kirkcaldy, and I needn’t go thinking I did, even if I could hide behind an army of bouncers.’

‘I get the feeling this is verbatim.’

‘Got to have a good memory. Whenever I was called to give evidence, I always knew it by heart – one way to impress a jury.’

‘So eventually he told you about Teresa Collins?’

‘Aye.’ Carter nodded to himself, still watching the fire spit and crackle. ‘Hers was the only name, but he said there’d been others. I thought the force had seen the back of his kind – maybe you’re not old enough to remember the way it was.’

‘Full of racists and sexists?’ Fox paused. ‘And Masons…’

Carter gave a quiet chuckle.

‘It still goes on,’ Fox continued. ‘Maybe not nearly as widespread as it was, but all the same.’

‘Your line of work, I suppose you see it more than most.’

Fox answered with a shrug and placed his empty mug on the floor, declining the offer of a refill. ‘The day he came here, did he mention the others: Scholes, Haldane, Michaelson?’

‘Only in passing.’

‘Nothing about them bending the rules?’